Darkest Sacrifice
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: S2: Strider, keeper of Defeat, meets one of the eldest female Loreans, Màiri the Mauler, an ancient warrior known for her uncompromising viciousness, her Instinct surging to life with Strider's appearance. *Whisper timeline. Rated M.


**A.N.**: Okay, each coupling has a soundtrack romance song I've given them: Strider's soundtrack, because he's such a cocky guy, is 'He's a Pirate,' from _Pirates of the Caribbean_. This song is packed full of action, so it fits his personality and his relationship with his girl really well.

* * *

**Chapter One:** Strider.

* * *

It was strange that a sense of serenity had enveloped the castle—the Lords' home, fortress and love-shack. A few crazy months of perpetual anxiety and bloodlust and a few attacks, infiltrations and healed wounds, and things were completely and utterly…too perfect.

Luckily Danika was unable to ever get away from her nightly nightmares, so she did not have the opportunity to completely purge herself of all evil. Okay, so she was sleeping with a demon—the demon of Pain, to be exact—but that was complicated, and, well, long story short, she was the All-Seeing Eye. Her nightmares were glimpses into Heaven or Hell—the former she had visited, the latter, she saw glimpses of and wept into Reyes' arms afterwards.

But last night's dream had been strange. Not Hell, not Heaven…a strange, blissful, stomach-writhing, emotional roller-coaster of both. Utter sweetness tinged with the deepest, most soul-possessing passion…she had wept for the girl she had seen. A girl who was _not_ a girl.

As she painted, the pain and torment of her too-large, too beautiful eyes grew and grew, betraying the hundreds of years of knowledge and suffering they had endured watching, the desolating sense of isolation, only tempered by the great and terrible lust that fuelled her deepest hopes and strongest desires. Great, because she believed in complete and total love with every fibre of her being, terrible…because after everything she had seen, she _still_ believed, despite her perpetual loneliness. This was not a mere slip of a girl she was painting—this was a woman, hardened by war and experience and headstrong, somehow Danika knew that just from her visions.

The dream had been strange: She had seen many things, small glimpses of scenes that were to come, but the dream had been wracked with so much soul-shattering emotion that Reyes had almost crushed her to him in an attempt to flow the flood of tears. Every stroke of her brush mixed more emotion into the painting, almost wringing her dry of her emotions. When every inch of the canvas was covered, the paint glistening, she turned her back on it till it dried, needed to get away from it like she always had to set aside a novel she had been sobbing over.

She smiled softly, at the platter of food—the sandwiches sweet Reyes made for her, the plate mounded with potato-chips and juicy sweet grapes—the glass filled to the rim with juice. She popped the grapes into her mouth till she looked like a chipmunk and chewed, grabbed half the sandwich and the juice and made her way into Reyes'—_their_—bedroom, and plopped down on the bed long enough to eat the sandwich and drink half the glass of juice in three thirsty gulps, then made her way downstairs.

She couldn't remember being so emotionally wrecked after a painting, but damn, that thing had drained her dry. She had been crying whilst she painted, she knew, because the second she saw Reyes in the entertainment room, he was at her side, cradling her cheeks, his face a complete mushy mess of weepy gushiness.

"Angel," he murmured, caressing her cheek with his; she noticed the gash in his arm but did not comment on it.

"I finished the painting," she grumbled miserably.

"Was it that terrible?"

"Draining," Danika sighed, snuggling closer into Reyes' chest. "Someone's coming."

"Really? Who?"

"I don't know her name," Danika sighed, resting her cheek against Reyes's neck.

"Dangerous?"

"I think she is, but not to us. I don't know. Take a look at the painting if you want, it's still drying," Danika yawned. Crying always made her tired. She settled into the pink-velvet chair and tugged a soft cream blanket over her legs, her eyes bleary from tiredness as she focused on Strider, playing a very competitive game of Mario Kart with silent Amun. His golden hair fell into his cerulean eyes—eyes fringed with the most luxurious curling blonde gold-tipped lashes like feather-dusters, his sweet lovely nose. He was a lovely pretty-boy. She watched him clench his jaw, revealing his gritted pearly-white teeth, his eyes narrowed in determination. She sat up.

"Strider."

"Yo."

"You don't have any admirers, do you?" she asked, frowning. It couldn't be Gideon—she would have noticed his electric-blue hair. But Strider's hair was just the right shade of blonde, and the way he flicked it out of his eyes with a subtle toss of his head made her frown, remembering.

"Apart from Amun, you mean, who has promised to worship the ground I walk on for all eternity?" Strider asked, petting Amun's glossy ebony-black hair. A sharp _slap_ and Strider pouted, dropping his hand; Amun returned to a book he had tucked by his thigh when Strider demanded a game. Amun was never without a book, and yet he would abandon it in a heartbeat if anyone asked him to do anything; he was the kindest of the Lords, Danika had thought several times. Silent but sweet.

"Yes, apart from Amun," Danika smiled lazily. Strider paused to think.

"Well, I have had _many _admirers in my time," he grinned rakishly. Danika arched an eyebrow.

"Any _recently_?" Amun made a tiny noise, like a scoff, and Strider whipped around in his seat to cuff him around the back of the head.

"And you _have_, Amy?" he batted his eyelashes innocently; Amun just punched him in the chest without looking up from his page. Strider pouted, hands over the injury, playful as always. Danika noticed he had the cocky playfulness of a handsome boy who _knew_ no one could stop staring at him and knew he was the best at everything—he had to be.

"I think you should go and look at my latest painting," Danika said gently, eyes roving over Strider's perfect features. God, he was beautiful. Each of the Lords were, in their own way, but Strider…ooh, he could have been on an Armani cologne ad over Times Square. Or Calvin Klein underwear. Both were appealing.

"Why?"

"I think you're in it," Danika remarked, examining a posy of flowers Ashlyn had used to decorate the pretty hand-carved occasional table Maddox had made, standing beside the pink-velvet chair.

"Really? Does it involve me mutilating Galen's worthless body?"

"Not exactly," Danika frowned.

"Oh."

"There's a woman in it."

"_Oh_." He jumped off the sofa and ran out of the room.

* * *

It was captivating. He had never seen another piece of artwork so entrancing. So much emotion had been poured into Danika's work that Strider had to knead the heel of his hand over his heart to stop it aching. Reyes stood beside him, his head cocked to one side, frowning at the painting. It was unlike Danika's other paintings; this one swirled with motion and different scenes merging together, a painted collage. She had used rich, earthy colours, lots of greens, ambers, browns and small splashes of crimson, used greys and whites to create the silver of blades and a full moon, the glistening teeth of a wolf and Strider's pure white smile. In the centre of the canvas, inside a mass of beautiful blonde curly hair striated with ambers and golds, coppers, browns and fiery reds, was the most beautiful face Strider had ever seen. Richer than Ashlyn's honeyed gold face, more grounded, natural than Anya's deific beauty, stronger than Danika's pristine prettiness. A delicate oval with a pretty chin, neatly arched dark eyebrows hovering expressively over the most enormous almond-shaped eyes he had ever seen. They were…captivating. Even in a painting. A rich, almost edible mélange of warm olive-green and the richest molasses-brown, flecked with the prettiest striations of gold, fringed with thick hoods of curling black lashes. She had high cheekbones and a delectable mouth and a straight, pretty nose.

"Huh." He scanned the painting—always, his attention returned to the woman in the centre (and he knew she was a woman, somehow, powerful and as dark and rich as the colours in the painting)—and noted the several scenes Danika had somehow perceived in that troubled little mind of hers. Strider, yes, he was there, his teeth gritted and eyes narrowed in concentration the way he looked in battle, when his demon was unleashed, his sword held with both hands, something he never did…there was another glimpse Danika had seen of his future—this one was rich in amber and gold and shadows of burning brown, two lovers intertwined, the girl's golden hair burning, the curve of Strider's shoulder-blades and back glowing as the girl's elegant hand splayed against his back, fingernails digging in.

"Is that _Legion_?" Reyes quirked an eyebrow bemusedly, pointing to one of the corners, where, yes, the scaly green demon Aeron coveted like a daughter was coiled protectively in the girl's lap, her hand bloody.

"Do you think she could be a demon?" Strider asked breathlessly, scanning the bottom of the painting, where Danika had painted several unfamiliar yet breathtakingly beautiful faces, their expressions ranging from pain to the most violent rage. One, actually, was not so unfamiliar, yet he had not seen it for thousands of years.

"Reyes…" he whispered, pointing (careful not to touch the still-glistening paint) at one of the faces. "Baden." There he was, amongst the other faces, several of them female and punishingly lovely, the others male and menacing. Rich golden-bronze skin and the richest molasses-brown hair, purest burning-gold eyes ringed with the prettiest black-and-gold eyelashes.

"That's not possible," Reyes choked on the breath he had just sucked in. Strider shook his head. _No, that's not possible_. He had spent a month in bed after Baden's beheading. He had _failed_. Failed to protect his friend, his brother.

"And _look_ who it is," Reyes gaped in incredulity, pointing at the beautiful blonde man residing beside Baden's figure. An angelic face, golden curls so blonde they were almost white, gilded like a halo.

"Wait." Strider frowned, squinting at Danika's intricate brushstrokes. "His eyes are green. Not Galen. His were blue."

"But still…the resemblance. And Baden beside him. It cannot be coincidence Danika dreamed of them," Reyes murmured.

"Baden is dead, Reyes, we all know this. We all saw, we held his head in our hands," Strider said, having difficulty swallowing suddenly.

"Yeah, but…it's just too uncanny," Reyes said wistfully, eyeing Baden's face. Strider glanced down, having been attracted upwards to the woman again.

"Who do you think she is?"

"I don't know, but whoever she is, you'd better be wary of her," Reyes smirked, eyes lingering on the image of fire-licked golden bodies intertwined.

"Yeah, or I'll end up like you. Whipped."

"When is being whipped a bad thing? Ever?" Reyes blurted, shaking his head. Strider nodded; he had to concede that.

"Are we heading to Club Destiny tonight?" Strider asked, eyes on the woman's face. So stomach-achingly beautiful…his demon growled playfully in appreciation.

"Yeah. Paris needs to fuel up for the journey," Reyes sighed. "I don't know—something's different about him since he got back from Athens."

"I noticed," Strider frowned. The once boyishly playful Paris, Keeper of Promiscuity, had…_hardened_, and not in a good way. He was more akin now to Sabin's stoic determination. "Alright, I'd better go and get all sexy."

* * *

Club Destiny was a writhing, churning, living thing, full to bursting with humans and all their many varied emotions—desire, lust, anger, jealousy, revenge, elation, happiness, drunkenness, Paris's demon Promiscuity simmering just beneath the skirts and trousers of every man woman and demon inside the place. Human girls, dressed in very little, grinded and sweated, panting against each other, with men all vying for their attention, adoration and physical worship.

He couldn't help think how pointless it all was. How _futile_. There would always be perpetual unhappiness; there would always be loneliness, the feeling of being completely and utterly unloved, unappreciated, and completely irrelevant. Any of those couples that ended up leaving tonight would undoubtedly enjoy a few hours, maybe a few weeks or months if they were very lucky, together in complete, unknowing bliss, for a moment in time completely and irrevocably happy in each other and in themselves.

Then she would come home to him with his cock pumping into another girl over their bed and the insults would fly like chinaware. Shattered paradise. He had seen it before—how many times he did not know. But in all his millennia, it had never once altered. Even when he had been a guard for the Greeks, there was jealousy and dishonesty and lust—in fact, one of his oldest, best friends was goddess of the latter. The opening of _dimOuniak_, Pandora's box, the box made of the dead goddess of oppression's bones, which should have been trusted to one of _them_, not Pandora—the opening of the jewelled casket had simply unleashed the demons on Earth. They had already infiltrated the Heavens—hell, there were gods and goddesses whose single job it was to enforce them. Lust—Oh, sweet Helénē, how he missed her.

He smiled to himself, sipping his drink; like her grandmother Aphrodite, Helénē only ever wore that flimsy diaphanous white fabric draped beautifully around her slender hips, showing off her beautiful waist and those sumptuous melt-hard-warriors-into-a-puddle breasts, her butterscotch-gold hair bound with gold thread and pearls and fragrant white flowers brushing tantalisingly against her pale-rose nipples. He shook himself, watching a group of teenaged girls grind together, flashing him grins. Why had he thought about Helénē after all this time? Sometimes, yes, she inhabited his dreams. It was impossible to forget the times—the nights—he had spent with lusty Helénē. Perhaps Maddox, Lucien and Reyes could attribute their initial attraction to their women to Helénē. She was Goddess of Lust, after all, favourite of her grandmother Aphrodite… He wondered whether she had been imprisoned in Tartarus, and his chest ached. Sweet Helénē locked inside that horrible place.

He sighed, and turned his thoughts to other things; watching someone's short leather skirt and the glimpses of thong he caught every time she swished her hips. He missed the old Greek standard form of dress for women. There was something always so classical and romantic about it. These women; he sighed, brow heavy, and glanced around the packed nightclub. Somehow 'class' and 'elegance' had lost their definitions over time. Every girl he saw either wore a criminally short skirt so their knickers flashed or dangerously low-cut tops so their breasts were in danger of bursting out. Paris was in his element, of course; the less clothing the girls wore the less he had to rip off; Strider, however, wasn't quite satisfied. Nothing was left to the imagination anymore. There was no intrigue, no daydreaming permitted with these human women…

"That woman has done nothing but stare at you since we walked in," Paris said, dropping into the booth beside him, sweating and glowing like a man who'd just taken two girls against the back wall—and he had. But Strider noticed that there was something…_straining_ in Paris's expression. Something paining his eyes. Perhaps Strider just wasn't drunk enough yet to appreciate the others were having a good time. Usually he was at the centre of the dance-floor, but tonight…he was too distracted by thoughts about that painting. As soon as the paint had dried, he had switched up his naughty-nurse painting over his fireplace with Danika's painting. He couldn't stop staring at it.

"What woman?" Strider asked, downing the last of his flask. Paris nodded his head towards the bar, which was lit with fluorescent blue and purple lights behind the frosted glass, bottles arranged pleasingly, the enormous disco-balls making everything glitter. There were leather-topped stools at the bar, and on one, Strider's gaze honed right onto her.

Slender arms, enigmatic hazel eyes and too much hair. He swallowed, rising from his seat. _Her_. His eyes raked over her as he made his way around the crowded too-large dance-floor. Her billows of thick, curling hair were pulled away from her face, curling over her shoulders and down to her lower-back, thick and lustrous and full of body. Her hazel eyes, already so huge in proportion, were highlighted by smoky black eyeshadow. And she wore a little pair of sequined mini-shorts that showed off all the lightly-tanned miles of gorgeous toned leg. She paired the shorts with a plain grey t-shirt and a black blazer, and a pair of black patent high heels. Nothing special, just those mini-shorts and those _legs_. Instant hard-on that was almost painful, Strider made his way toward her, drawn to her. Her eyes never left his face. He noted the tumbler of top-shelf scotch she held loosely in her hand on the bar, noted the way her lips curved upwards in a smile as he closed in on her.

All he could think was how gorgeous those legs were, how tight she would wrap them around him while he pumped into her hard and fast and powerful, would she scrape those pretty nails into his back and bite his neck as she thrashed on the bed beneath him, her hair flying.

He failed to notice he wasn't the only body interested in her. For once, he failed to notice that there were two Hunters approaching her. He didn't notice they were Hunters till it was too late—one distracted her attention, and then Strider saw a flash of slender silver as the second Hunter plunged a needle into her thigh, pushing something pearly silver into her bloodstream.

He froze, every fibre of his being on edge. As he watched, her eyes sought him, frantic and glazed at the same time, burning. Her leg—something was crawling through her body from the point of injection, spreading quickly through her bloodstream. She couldn't stand properly, and the two Hunters grabbed her under the arms and hauled her away.

Strider kicked into hyper-drive. _No one_ cost him a win. Not even Hunters—especially not Hunters. Not even when it was about women. Strapped as he was with at least twenty weapons, he surged through the crowd, knocking people aside though they did not protest; others took the hint and cleared a path to the entrance.

* * *

Outside it was cooler, quieter, and eerie. He glanced around, and heard something that made his blood run cold. A low, cruel snarl, followed by a stomach-quivering roar like that of an infuriated, threatened wolf; he followed the sound, to one of the quiet back-alleys, and palmed a blade in each hand as he watched the woman suddenly lurch, throwing off the Hunters. He noticed her hands first—the claws that had sprung from her pretty nails, lethal as his blades, and in the moonlight saw her profile as her jaw strengthened, her cheekbones sharpened and her teeth elongated before sinking savagely into the neck of the closest Hunter, then the next who tried to pry her off his comrade. Every part of him completely frozen, he just _watched_. Watched the marvel that was this otherworldly woman defending herself with the skill and precision of a practiced warrior. Take one out, then the other and focus on the last…

"Look out!" he bellowed, too late; a third Hunter had appeared, and the _pop, whiz_ of a flying bullet pierced the air. It hit its target, but it may as well have hit the wall beside her for all the harm it did. But something happened to Strider in that instant: He saw red. His demon was threatening to take over; he blinked furiously and gripped his blades. _Mine. Mine. Mine_, the demon growled, meaning the woman. _Mine. No hurt. Must have_. _MINE_.

_Quiet. I can't concentrate with you shouting at me_, he thought, frowning; he gripped his knives and ran. The woman surged on, closing in on the third Hunter, snarling and growling something fierce, such as Strider had never heard. _Pop, pop, pop_. The Hunter emptied his magazine, and then she howled in pain rather than menace, buckling. Strider chose his moment and launched himself over her hunched form, teeth gritted, eyes narrowed menacingly, and collided with the Hunter.

"Demon scum!"

"_I _don't attack unarmed women," Strider snarled, crossed his wrists so his blades were tucked beneath the Hunter's jawbone, and with a squelching sound and blood spattering all over his chest, the decapitated Hunter fell to the floor, blood pooling around him. "Bastard," he bit out, kicking the body.

_Yes, yes, yes_, his demon rejoiced, his strength doubling. He turned to the woman and fell to his knees beside her when he saw her body trembling violently.

"Thank you," came a guttural voice, and Strider's cock twitched in response as he flicked his eyes to hers. They were completely black, glowing like the night sky, silvery light twinkling off the inky surface. Her voice was deep, earthy, rich, like her. He watched, stunned and fascinated, as, despite her violent shivering, she used her claw-like fingers to dig the bullets out of her torso. She was panting, her body shuddering as if she was going into shock—which he realised she _was_, at least while those bullets were lodged inside her. He watched, wondering whether she would snap at him if he tried to help, as steam rose from her fingers as she hissed, withdrawing a flattened bullet from her stomach. She clenched her eyes shut, looking to be in pain, but he noticed that the bullet that had lodged itself in her neck was working its way out, pushed by the muscle and tissue she controlled. With a soft _tinkle_, the bullet fell to the floor amid the others she had removed with her fingers, and Strider flicked his eyes over her, at her leg, where the silvery substance was still trickling through her blood. "They shredded organs, shite, that'll hurt in the morning…"

"Are you alright?" Strider asked breathlessly. He loved how his body responded to her voice. He had detected a faint accent…_Scottish_.

"I'm jus' peachy," the woman growled darkly. "Those _bastards_ used silver nitrate," she gasped to herself. She examined her trembling leg and Strider noticed her swaying where she sat, her eyes going out of focus.

_Silver nitrate? Why would they use silver nitrate as a sedative? …Why did they use silver bullets?_ he wondered, glancing at the flattened bullets scattered on the floor around her, smouldering slightly, bloody, then things locked into place.

"You're a werewolf?" he said breathlessly. The woman—her eyes now that enigmatic hazel Strider knew instantly he had waited all his life to see—glanced at him.

"Lycan," she corrected. _Mine. Mine. Mine. _

_Selfish. Can't have her._

_Want, want, want. Me have her. Me fight her. Me win. _He knew his demon was attracted because it had witnessed her skill at fighting those Hunters. It wanted to test her, to defeat her, to render her doubtful of her abilities, to break her pride. She was a challenge. No, he would not allow it. _Won't have her._

"Are you alright?" he asked. If she were permanently hurt he would hunt down every Hunter he could and slaughter them mercilessly—hell, he would anyway now.

"I'm fine," she said, on a heavy sigh, and heaved herself off the floor. He stood too. In her heels, she was several inches taller than him—the tallest woman he had ever met. Gods, she was beautiful. Power and heat radiated off her. Power in her body, in her shapely hips, her comparatively tiny waist, the lush voluptuousness of her large breasts, her arms as strong as steel: Power in her stance, shoulders thrown back, chin up, daring anyone to approach her. She made it two steps and stumbled, her leg trembling.

"I've got you," Strider murmured, diving for her. He captured her in his arms before she fell, unconscious. "Shit."

"Strider?" Someone—Aeron—was calling for him.

"In here," Strider called, looping his arm beneath her knees, hoisting her off the floor into his arms. Heat radiated from her body, whether it was from exertion or the silver-nitrate, Strider didn't know, but he just knew that he had never before realised how cold he was. Her warmth radiated through him and thawed him. Aeron, tattooed, winged Aeron, came striding round the corner into the alley and froze, slack-jawed.

"What did you do?" he blurted, eyeing the remnants of the woman's assailants.

"I didn't. She did," Strider grunted, hoisting the woman's weight higher in his arms.

"She—_what_?" Aeron blurted again, his eyes widening. "Why would Hunters go after her and not you?"

"I don't know—she says she's a lycan. By the silver bullets they'd used and what I saw her do, I'd safely bet she's telling the truth about that," Strider sighed, glancing down at her face. He wished he knew her name.

"Again, not comprehending _why_ they'd go after _her_, not _you_," Aeron frowned, shaking his head.

"No idea—listen, I don't know much—or anything, really—about lycans, but they injected her with silver nitrate to sedate her," Strider said, his muscles bulging as he held her against him. Aeron winced. "I'm guessing that could be a problem. Could you fly her back to the castle?"

"Yeah. I'm done here anyway," Aeron sighed, shrugging. "Legion doesn't like it when I stay out too long."

"You and that bloody demon," Strider laughed, shaking his head. It was always comical watching hard, tattooed Aeron with Legion. He petted her like a baby, like a daughter.

"She soothes me," Aeron shrugged, offering his arms so Strider could transfer the woman to him after removing his t-shirt. "Anyway, we're off soon, I won't be able to see her. Sabin's guilted her into going to Hell for recon work while we're away." He growled, grinding his jaw; Strider knew he hated Sabin taking advantage of Legion's fondness of Aeron. The woman, now residing in Aeron's arms, groaned softly, but that tiny sound was filled with pain, and Strider's stomach ached because of it, wincing when he saw the needle prick where the silver nitrate had been injected into her leg. Ouch, it looked painful. Maybe Anya would know about lycans. As otherworldly as the Lords were, they had rarely consorted with other immortal races. They kept to themselves and focused all energy on their war with the Hunters. That was their life.

"What're you going to do?" Aeron asked, flicking his eyes over Strider.

"Clean up the mess. Then we'll come back up to the castle," Strider said, eyes on the woman. "And be careful with her, please."

"Yessir," Aeron smirked. Strider arched an eyebrow, but with one great sweep of his diaphanous black wings, Aeron was already soaring through the sky. His chest started aching the moment Aeron's polished black boots disappeared. Suddenly Lucien stood before him.

"You'll have to explain to the others," he said, squinting painfully. "I'm being called." Strider nodded, and Lucien disappeared again as the other Lords came round the corner accompanied by Anya and Danika.

"Oh dear," Danika sighed.

"What happened?" Sabin glowered at the bodies.

"They attacked—the woman you painted earlier," Strider said, glancing at Danika.

"They attacked—what?"

"I don't know why—they just did. She said she's a lycan."

"Er. Where _is_ she, Strider?" Reyes asked, glancing around.

"She's injured. They injected her with silver nitrate," Strider said, his hands shaking.

"Oh dear. Not good," Anya cringed. "She better get fresh blood flowing through her veins or she's _done_."

"Where _is she_, Strider?" Sabin asked, frowning.

"Aeron took her up to the castle," Strider said, agitated. He wanted to see her again.

He and Sabin disposed of the bodies, cleaned up the mess, and they all made their way to the two Range Rovers parked beneath one of Torin's hidden city cameras. Growling softly to himself as he climbed into the driver's seat of one of the Range Rovers, he glowered. Why on earth would the Hunters be interested in her, rather than him? He, who had been so intent on the woman they could easily have ambushed him right there in the club. What on earth did they want with a female werewolf—lycan? He'd seen her wrists—no sign of infinity anywhere, and he highly doubted she'd let herself be used as Bait. That much he gleaned from her demeanour whilst conscious. After watching her fight, he knew she was the kind of woman not to take any crap from anyone, and woe betide anyone who tried to best her.

"Um, Strider, you _do_ know not all of us have superhuman healing capabilities, don't you?" Danika asked lightly; Strider jumped, glanced over his shoulder and back at the speed dial.

"Sorry," he gritted out with a heavy sigh.

"Your eyes are so not like…_demon_," Gideon said from the seat beside him. Strider flicked a glance in the rear-view mirror and shook himself. "You're _not_ thinking about your girl."

"She's not my girl—and yes," Strider pouted. "What I don't get—we were all there tonight, right? The Hunters could easily have gone after one of us, or Danika. Why her? It doesn't make any sense."

"We'll get it out of her," Reyes said quietly. "Did she seem surprised they were after her? Maybe she's Bait."

"I don't think she's Bait," Strider frowned thoughtfully. "And I got the impression it takes quite a lot to shake her. You should have seen her fight though—if I hadn't seen her transform partially into her lycan form I would've guessed she was an Amazon."

"We'll have Torin look up lycans on his computers," Reyes murmured thoughtfully. "And Amun can take a look through his books. He's almost done unpacking his library." Torin admitted them into the grounds, and Strider navigated around the many booby-traps Torin had set up for any invading Hunters. Any _more_ invading Hunters, that was. A few months ago, Hunters had infiltrated the castle, tried to decapitate Torin and ran off with Ashlyn, spreading disease through Budapest because they had touched Torin. Fools. Ignorant fools.

"Maybe you should take the girls upstairs," Strider said to Reyes, who eyed Danika and nodded; Anya flipped her hair over her shoulder and stalked in through the entrance hall.

"_Aeron_!"

"What the hell happened to you?!"

Strider's jaw dropped. Aeron slipped down the stairs into the hall, his t-shirt slashed viciously across his chest, blood oozing from the ragged gashes in his flesh, whilst a giant gash in his neck set off alarms that he might've been attacked by a dog. His hands were bloody and raw, there were minor cuts and scrapes over him, and Maddox dropped downstairs beside him, weary.

"I'm sorry, Strider," Aeron winced, looking down at his chest.

"What the hell happened?" Sabin growled. Strider wanted to know that too—why did Aeron look so guilty?

"The girl woke up just as I was putting her on the bed," Aeron winced as he moved his head, a fresh rivulet of blood seeping down to the collar of his ruined t-shirt. "She freaked out big time."

"Where is she now?"

"…"

"Aeron!" Strider warned threateningly. Just then, a howl rent the air, echoing up from the "_dungeons_! You put her in the dungeon!"

"We had to, Strider," Maddox said quickly. "She took chunks outta Aeron, and you know he doesn't take shit lying down. She could've easily killed Ashlyn." Maddox gulped, his eyes fiery at the thought.

"You-put-her-in-the-dungeon!" Strider gritted out.

"Well, at least she got some fresh blood," Anya said, wrinkling her nose at the sight of Aeron's mauled neck. "She'll heal now, don't worry Strider."

"You-_put_-her-_in_-the_-dungeon_!" Strider repeated, as the howling continued to grow, accompanied by constant growls low in the beast's throat.

"She's dangerous," Maddox growled, rotating his shoulder, where a huge gash was healing up.

"Uh—_hello_! So are we! You probably scared the shit out of her, that's why," Strider gaped, stalking to the stairs. Sabin caught him by the upper-arm and Strider hissed as he shoved his friend away.

"Strider, don't let her out till she's calmed down," Aeron said quietly. "It'll just cause more havoc, and she might really hurt someone—_or we'll have to hurt her_."

Strider bristled at that. Them—hurt her?! He would never allow it. _Mine._

_Yeah, mine_. If anyone was going to beat her in a battle, it was going to be _him_.

_Mine_.

"Like you didn't already hurt her," Strider growled at him. Aeron's eyes shuttered; yes, he had been forced to hurt her in response to the threat she posed.

"She tried to eat Legion."

"_So did you_!" Discomfort flickered across Aeron's violet eyes; he hadn't wanted to hurt her, he saw that. Didn't excuse it.

Another howl rent the air, long and spine-shivering, hair-prickling. Strider shivered just listening, his demon whimpering in sympathy. _Out, out, out. Me have her. Mine._ His demon sympathised with the woman, that she was trapped in a dungeon.

* * *

**A.N.**: Okay, I'm planning to incorporate all the Lords stories together into this one, because otherwise I don't think I can write it as multiple stories, so please bear with me as it'll probably be very long! Please review.


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